


Delicious

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, Ice Skating, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Yuuri is lightheaded well before he makes it off the winner’s podium." Viktor and Yuuri celebrate Yuuri's victory with an appetizer.





	

Yuuri is lightheaded well before he makes it off the winner’s podium. It’s too much to take in all at once: Viktor had his arms around him before Yuuri had well caught his breath from the exertion of his performance, and had segued into critique before Yuuri had even figured out how to lift his hands to return the warmth of the other’s hold. The crowd hasn’t stopped cheering, hasn’t given way on the roar of sound for Yuuri, appreciation for his performance as loud as what his competitor received. Everything falls into a haze, the gleam of the ice and the enthusiastic noise of the crowd, congratulations and handshakes and tears and a rush of people that Yuuri can’t make sense of, can’t parse into anything like individuals speaking to him. The only fixed point is Viktor at his shoulder, Viktor’s hand brushing against Yuuri’s shoulderblades as if to hold him steady, and that feels surreal too, feels like a dream as much as all the rest of it. It’s Viktor’s touch that steers Yuuri back out onto the ice and up to the heights of the stand to prove his victory, and even the realization that Yurio has vanished before the announcement of the results isn’t enough to more than briefly dampen Yuuri’s dizzy happiness. He’s won, he’s blinking the flash of cameras from his eyes and holding the weight of a bouquet of flowers in the angle of his arm; and then Viktor’s arm comes around him, Viktor’s fingers tighten to pull Yuuri in close against the support he offers, and Yuuri thinks that he could evaporate right then with absolute, perfect happiness. Everything truly does blur after that, between the effect of exhaustion and adrenaline and too much joy to bear, and Yuuri is grateful for the bracing force of Viktor’s hold at his arm, glad to lean at the support of the other’s grip against his elbow as he smiles and waves his way back through the crowd on his way to the back room.

“Beautiful,” Viktor says as he pushes open the door to the room with one hand and gently urges Yuuri through by his hold at the other’s elbow. “You were beautiful, Yuuri.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says, stumbling through the doorway in obedience to Viktor’s lead. His legs feel like they’re shaking, his arms feel weak; with the door swinging shut behind them to block out the sound of the crowd his head feels fuzzy, his ears ringing with the aftereffects of victory hazy in his mind. “Thank you. It was your routine to start with.”

“It was,” Viktor agrees. He’s still holding Yuuri’s elbow; Yuuri is grateful for the support, happy to lean against the other as Viktor steps away from the door to lead him towards what additional help the wall will offer. “And you made it your own. You impressed me.”

Yuuri huffs a laugh, feeling his mouth curve up onto the warmth of a smile, the smile he always feels when he thinks of Viktor with him, of Viktor coaching him, of Viktor _watching_ him with absolute attention behind the blue of his eyes. He turns to look back at the other man, reaching out his free hand to brace his fingertips against the wall behind him to steady his balance as he smiles dizzy delight at Viktor. “Did I surprise you?”

Viktor’s lashes dip, shadowing over the bright of his eyes as he snorts amusement. “No,” he says, his voice so low Yuuri can feel it deep down in the depths of his stomach, can feel it grounding out at the base of his spine. “I knew that you could do it.” His free hand comes out to catch at Yuuri’s shoulder against the side of uninterrupted black; the fabric is thin, Yuuri can feel the weight of each finger individually against his skin. Viktor’s gaze drops from his face to his shoulder, his eyes following the slide of his fingers against the cloth; his lips curve up on a smile, his hair falls forward to shadow his gaze with silver. “You were a pleasure to watch.”

“It’s the routine,” Yuuri says. His heart is racing in his chest, pounding harder now than it did even at the end of his performance; the physical exertion and the adrenaline of an audience are nothing compared to this, to the weight of Viktor’s fingers at his shoulder and the focus of Viktor’s gaze sliding across him. “And the costume. They’re beautiful, together.”

Viktor laughs again. “No,” he says, and his fingers slide up all at once, his touch landing at the side of Yuuri’s throat as if he’s seen the rush of the other’s pulse under his skin, as if he intends to steady that under his fingertips as well. Yuuri’s breathing inverts on itself, tangling in his chest as if it’s trying to choke him, and Viktor’s gaze comes back to his face, all the piercing clarity of those blue eyes fixing hard on Yuuri’s features as if he’s seeing right through him. Viktor’s thumb presses to Yuuri’s jaw, the weight settling close against the other’s skin as if it’s coming home to stay. Yuuri is glad for the wall at his back. He doesn’t think he would still be standing if not for its support.

“It was you,” Viktor says. The words are very soft, almost a whisper; it’s startling for Yuuri to realize how clearly he can hear them, a shock to understand how close Viktor is to make his voice so vivid with so little volume. “You’ve always been beautiful, Yuuri.”

Yuuri can see Viktor move. It’s like it’s in slow motion, as if Viktor is moving with deliberate care to make his actions carry the more weight with graceful certainty; Yuuri can watch the way Viktor’s head tips to the side, can see the way the action lets his hair fall clear of his features for a rare glimpse of clarity of the other’s expression. Viktor’s lips part, he takes a faint breath of air, and Yuuri can feel the motion against his skin, can feel it with a precision as startling as the sound of Viktor’s voice. Silver lashes shift, dipping down over the bright of blue eyes, and some insanity in Yuuri flickers into clarity, some adrenaline-created possibility rises to the surface of his dizzy thoughts: _is he going to…_ and then there’s weight against Yuuri’s mouth, the soft heat of lips pressing against his, and Viktor is answering the impossible question before Yuuri has yet let his mind form it.

It’s too much to take in for a moment. Viktor’s mouth is gentle against Yuuri’s, the weight of his lips as deliberate and careful as the weight of his fingertips against the other’s cheek; the pressure is warm, hot in comparison with the cool that always hangs in the air of the rink, and when he shifts his head it’s to close what gap yet remains between their mouths to nothing. Yuuri’s eyes are still open, he realizes distantly, his gaze caught against the blur of silver that comes with Viktor’s close-up hair, his lips barely parted with the afterimage of the breathing that has entirely stopped in his chest; his heart is still beating, he can feel the rhythm of it skidding to frantic speed against his ribcage, but he can’t remember how his lungs work, can’t make it past the impossibility of Viktor kissing him and back to rational existence. This can’t be real, none of this can be real, it must all be an extended dream -- and then Viktor’s lips shift fractionally back from his, and “Open your mouth, Yuuri,” Viktor is saying, and Yuuri is obeying without hesitation, parting his lips in instinctive obedience to the purr of heat in Viktor’s throat. Viktor hums, encouragement warm against Yuuri’s mouth as he leans back in to close the gap between them, and as Viktor licks heat past his lips and over his tongue Yuuri decides that he doesn’t particularly care if this is a dream or not, as long as it doesn’t stop. His lashes flutter shut, his eyes closing of their own accord, and when Viktor takes a step in against him Yuuri makes a faint sound against the other’s mouth and tips his head to better fit his lips to Viktor’s. That wins him another hum, lower and darker this time, and when Viktor’s hand eases from his elbow to cradle his head instead Yuuri reaches out without hesitating, his fingers finding their way to the bottom edge of Viktor’s jacket and settling into a fist on the fabric. Viktor’s touch is sliding across his face, his fingertips trailing over the shape of Yuuri’s jawline and his thumb skimming up along the arch of the other’s cheekbone, and Yuuri is breathing again, too-fast and too-hot and with all his sense of the world hazing out as his blood goes blisteringly hot in his veins, as the liquid evaporates into steam to burn humid in his chest with every beat of his heart.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says against his mouth, his voice turning Yuuri’s name over into something elegant, beautiful, sultry in a way Yuuri has never been before, as if Viktor’s use is enough to turn everything Yuuri is into an eroticism he would never have found alone. Yuuri gasps for air, his balance wobbling around him as if he’s drunk, but he still has his hold on Viktor’s coat, and Viktor’s hands are still pressed against his face, still bracing him in place for the weight of the other’s mouth to descend on his again. “You’re _so_ beautiful.” He sounds delighted, hot and satisfied, as if Yuuri has met some unvoiced expectation. “The very best katsudon.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, all his coherency stolen by the friction of Viktor’s lips. Viktor’s fingertips slide down his cheek, against the line of his jaw, down to the curve of his throat; Yuuri’s head goes back in reflexive surrender, his neck arching to give over the pattern of his pulse to the weight of Viktor’s fingers. “Oh my god, Viktor.”

“You wouldn’t let me come to bed with you that first night,” Viktor observes, his voice catching on the faintest tinge of judgement as his touch drags against the tendons in Yuuri’s throat, printing heat in their wake as he trails down to the collar of the other’s costume, of his _own_ costume clinging tight to Yuuri’s skin. “Can I have you now?”

“Ah,” Yuuri gasps. “You want -- are you serious?”

“I am,” Viktor says. His fingers close at the zipper of the costume, finding out the tiny pull of metal hidden in the fabric without any hesitation at all. “What do you say, Yuuri?” Fingers tug, the zipper slips down; Yuuri can feel the chill in the air slide under the fabric to ghost across his skin, to whisper a shiver along his spine and harden his nipples against the silky give of the clothing. “You looked so delicious out there, I want to try a taste.”

“Oh,” Yuuri manages. He’s breathing harder than he did during the whole of his performance; every inhale drags his skin against the loosened fabric against his chest, every beat of his heart fails to disrupt the framework of what must be a dream, of what can’t possibly be reality. “Viktor.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Viktor asks. The zipper drags down farther, laying the costume open all the way from Yuuri’s throat to just below his navel; Yuuri can feel the air like fingers wandering across his skin, can feel arousal hot in his veins to burn off whatever cold he might otherwise be feeling. “Tell me and I will.” He lets the zipper go, reaches up with a thumb instead; his touch slides across Yuuri’s skin, pressure dragging across the inch of skin just over the open zipper, threatening to go lower without quite dipping inside the edges of the costume. “Should I stop here?”

Yuuri’s heart is pounding, his breathing catching sticky in the back of his throat. He can’t think, can’t form rationality around the fact of this experience: Viktor’s hands on him, Viktor’s gaze on him, Viktor’s lips damp from Yuuri’s own mouth and curving onto a lopsided smile as he meets Yuuri’s stare, as he waits for Yuuri’s word. But this, at least, is an easy question, one Yuuri doesn’t need to think about to answer. He shakes his head, a quick jerk of movement so sudden it leaves him dizzy with the action, and when he opens his mouth “ _No_ ” is falling from his lips as fast as he parts them, the word strung tight on the certainty in his response. “No, don’t stop.”

Viktor’s smile pulls wider, his eyes dip to shadows that darken the blue of them to something deeper, richer, the ocean in winter instead of the clear shift of light over ice. “Good,” he says, and his hand draws up the length of Yuuri’s chest, his fingertips trailing the edge of the open zipper to leave Yuuri trembling in helpless reaction to the heat burning through his veins. “I won’t.” And he’s leaning back in, tipping his head to catch Yuuri’s lips with his own, and Yuuri is shutting his eyes and surrendering once again to the heat of Viktor’s mouth on his. Viktor kisses with intention, with focus and deliberation behind his movements as if they’re a performance for the fellow actor and audience both that Yuuri presents, and it’s not until the other draws back that Yuuri realizes Viktor’s hands are at his shoulders, that Viktor’s touch is urging the fabric of his costume down and off his skin.

“Here,” Viktor says, his thumb bracing at Yuuri’s collarbone as his fingers slide farther under the weight of the cloth. “Let’s get this off you, Yuuri.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, and lets his hands fall from Viktor’s jacket, lets his arms go slack at his sides long enough for Viktor to peel the costume off his shoulders and down his arms. Viktor is careful about it, gentle with the delicate fabric as he urges it free of Yuuri’s body; Yuuri’s skin prickles with sensation, the friction purring up his spine until he shudders with it, his whole body trembling as if with cold as Viktor slides the elastic down his arms and off his hands.

“Are you cold?” Viktor asks, his voice gentle as if he’s really concerned, as if his smile isn’t unfolding heat out across Yuuri’s shoulders like wings, as if his touch isn’t electrifying the inside of Yuuri’s wrists until he imagines his veins must be glowing with golden light. “Should we wait until later?”

“No,” Yuuri says again, rushing over the word so he can fit it around the shallow gasp of his breathing in his chest. “I’m not cold. This is good.”

“Mm,” Viktor hums, tipping his head down so he can watch his hands as he urges Yuuri’s costume down the other’s waist and to the dip at his hips. “We’ll have to take this back up at more length later.” His fingers slide down, his palms press flush to the other’s skin; Yuuri has to lift a hand to his mouth to catch back the whimper of heat that pushes at his tongue and strains the back of his throat. “Let’s get enough satisfaction to tide us over until then, yes?” Yuuri moans, a tiny sound shaking against the inside of his chest, and Viktor glances back up at him through the silver curtain of his hair, his mouth tugging sharp on a smile.

“Yes,” he says, “that’s what I thought too.” And then he’s moving too fast for Yuuri to parse, dropping to the floor with so much grace he makes it look like a dance, fluid elegance spilling through his whole body. Yuuri’s eyes go wide, his fingers tighten over his mouth to hold back the heat on his tongue, and in front of him Viktor’s knee is sliding between his skates, Viktor’s hands are urging his costume down off the angle of his hips.

“Just a taste,” Viktor is saying, and Yuuri’s costume is sliding free of his skin, slipping over his hips as the elastic at his thighs goes slack, as the fabric bares flushed skin and trembling legs and the heat straining his cock hard towards his stomach with proof of the arousal so electric in his veins. Yuuri’s cheeks are flushing with self-consciousness so bright it’s verging towards panic, and Viktor’s lashes shift, his gaze sliding up towards Yuuri’s face to flicker blue through the shadow. He’s still smiling, his mouth weighted with the same darkness turning his gaze so sultry with heat, and when he touches his tongue to his lower lip Yuuri can feel his thighs tense with the surge of desire that hits him, with the reflexive urge to buck forward and seek out some kind of friction against the flush of his cock.

“It’ll be an appetizer,” Viktor tells him, letting his hold on the costume go to draw his fingertips up the line of Yuuri’s thigh and across the angle of the other’s hip; Yuuri can’t stop shaking, can’t remember how to blink, and then Viktor’s fingers curl around the base of his cock and his whole body flares to heat so bright for a moment he can’t trust his footing, can’t manage to hold back the groan that pushes itself up his throat and over his tongue to stifle itself to a muffled weight against his palm. Viktor’s smile goes wider, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and: “I’m sure I’ll still have room for the main course once we’re home” before he’s ducking his head, and leaning in, and sliding his lips down over the head of Yuuri’s cock.

Yuuri’s mind short-circuits. There’s no other way for him to process this, no sense of the reality he lives in that has room for the greatest idol of his life on his knees in front of him, sucking against the flushed heat of Yuuri’s cock as if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Yuuri’s eyes are still open but he’s not seeing anything at all; his head has gone back against the wall, his shoulders are trembling helplessly against the support, and in front of him Viktor is humming against him, Viktor’s tongue is sliding up the underside of his cock and slicking hard against the head and Yuuri’s hips are jolting forward, tiny reflexive tremors shivering along his thighs and over the tension of his stomach to break to stillness against Viktor’s grip around him. He’s blinking hard, some instinct telling him to try to pull himself to reality, to wake himself from this too-vivid dream; but his imagination has never been so inventive before, has never before offered such stunning clarity as the warm heat of Viktor’s lips sliding in a slow rhythm over his cock or the weight of Viktor’s tongue dragging hard over the sensitive skin at the head. Yuuri’s legs are trembling, his balance wavering over the uncertain support of the skates he still has on; but Viktor’s rhythm is unflinching, his movement as self-assured in this as it is when he’s on the ice. All Yuuri can do is follow his lead, is let the involuntary motion of his hips fall into sync with the dip of Viktor’s head and the press of his lips while he fights to maintain his balance against the dizzy spin of the world around him and the heat rising in his veins. His breathing is dragging to whimpers in his throat, his whole body canting forward in answer to the urging of Viktor’s mouth on him, and then one foot slips and his balance wobbles under him. Yuuri has to reach out, has to clutch at Viktor’s shoulder to brace himself, and Viktor’s other hand catches at Yuuri’s hip to urge him back to the wall and hold him steady. Yuuri’s legs are starting to shake, his whole body trembling with the electricity climbing up his spine with every drag of Viktor’s lips over him; but Viktor isn’t letting him go, his grip is as steady as the rhythm of his motion.

Yuuri lets his hand fall from his mouth, lets his fingers drop to tangle into the silver of Viktor’s hair to push the silky soft of it back from the other’s face with unthinking force. “Viktor,” he gasps, his voice breaking over the consonants until they sparkle like sunlight on glass. “I’m--please, you--” Viktor hums against him, his voice purring to heat all across Yuuri’s skin, and Yuuri’s legs tense hard, his breathing catching to shuddering strain in his chest. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, his vision is hazing to white and his heart is pounding against his chest and Viktor’s lips are sliding over him, Viktor’s tongue is wet against his length, and then Yuuri’s hips jolt forward, his eyes go wide, and he’s coming in a rush, “ _Viktor_ ” spilling from his throat at the same time his cock twitches and spills hot over the drag of Viktor’s tongue. Yuuri’s back is arching, his fingers curling tight into Viktor’s hair as his voice breaks over a whimpering moan, and Viktor is humming around him, drawing spasming aftershocks of heat all down Yuuri’s spine with the vibration at his lips. Yuuri’s vision is hazy, his balance precarious at best; but Viktor’s hair is soft against his fingers, and Viktor’s mouth is warm around him, and for a few precious seconds that’s all that matters in the whole of the world.

Viktor pulls away first, carefully, without letting his hold on Yuuri’s hip go; Yuuri jerks at the sensation, his legs shaking with involuntary tremors, but Viktor’s grip keeps him balanced until he can steady himself against the wall again. Viktor lets his hold on Yuuri’s length go, lifting his hand to his mouth as he swallows to clear his tongue, and Yuuri shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to come back to reality, tries to fit the experience of what’s just happened into the framework of his life as it has been up until now. He’s still struggling with it when Viktor’s hands tug the costume back up over his hips, when the soft purr of “Yuuri” in Viktor’s throat announces the other getting back to his feet. There’s a touch at Yuuri’s cheek, warm fingertips dragging across skin, and Yuuri shudders with the friction, his whole body tensing and easing in a single reflexive action. “Yuuri, open your eyes.”

Yuuri takes a breath. It’s cold in his chest, sparkling with the promise of the ice layering the rink into gleaming smoothness; the familiar burn of it in his lungs steadies his racing heartbeat, ties him down with the weight of nostalgia to the present moment. As he lets it out he lets his tension go with it, feels his dizziness fade to the distance, and finally he opens his eyes and his vision comes back into focus.

Viktor is watching him. His hair is tangled across his forehead, the strands showing the weight of Yuuri’s grip against them; his eyes are bright again, sparkling with the same delight curving across the soft of his lips. Yuuri can see the details of individual lashes, can see the damp clinging to Viktor’s mouth; as his gaze drops Viktor licks the corner of his lips, catching the slick wet against his tongue.

“Delicious,” he says, purring the word to a shimmer of heat in the cool air between them. “Shall we head home before starting in on the second course?”

Yuuri can feel his whole face go hot, can feel his cheeks flush with the sunburn ache of embarrassment under his skin; but there’s pressure inside his chest, the threat of laughter tickling the back of his throat, and Viktor laughs aloud as he reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of Yuuri’s neck and leans in to fit his mouth against the other’s.

Viktor is right, Yuuri thinks dizzily as he shuts his eyes and parts his lips for the warm press of the other’s tongue against his. He really does taste amazing.


End file.
